Nervous Energy
by DragonDancer5150
Summary: Wheeljack waits for his turn with the review board for the most prestigious engineering school on Cybertron. G1 cartoon continuity, pre-canon. COMPLETE


Author's Note – TF-Speedwriting prompt – "Setting: a waiting room." This falls into my Designation 24601 series, my view on Wheeljack's origin story. This falls between "Dawn's Light" and "The Ties That Bind".

Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.

"Nervous Energy"  
by DragonDancer5150

Wheeljack clamped his hands together in his lap to hide the shaking, but then one foot started wiggling. _Fraggit, stop that!_ he told himself as sternly as he could manage as he shoved his heel – both heels, just in case – back against the baseboard of his seat. He glanced next to him to see if the other mechs on the bench had noticed. If they had, they gave no indication. Satisfied that he wouldn't somehow be in trouble with any of them, he let his gaze scan the rest of the room for the four or fifth – or fiftieth – time.

The air in the room was so thick with charged energy from everyone's anxiety, he could almost see it on his new scanners. Well, relatively new. New to him. He was still getting used to the handful of upgrades from his most recent reformat. Everything was used – he couldn't afford the "good" stuff – but it was functional, and that was plenty good enough for him. Still, he felt that he stuck out like a neon signpost among all these other mechs competing for entrance into the engineering program of the university, with their spotless paintjobs and their best-of-the-best modifications. Most at least, just guessing by their looks, were from really nice backgrounds and higher social strata, with creators who cared about them and wanted the best for them. He was there on his own merits and the secret favor of the doyen, and the project he'd presented to the review board had to be on par with, if not better than, all these other mechs with their better education and probably better intelligence. He was self-taught, but he'd succeeded in impressing the doyen. And saving the mech from particular embarrassment by managing to solve a problem for him before anyone else had realized there _was_ a problem. This chance to stand before the review board – with a doctored admittance file that hid his true origins – was the doyen's way of thanking him.

His application had _had_ to be doctored and backed by someone who would sponsor him. The high-end school would never have given him a thought if they knew they were considering a homeless nobody – a runaway _slave_ - from a deep-rock mine in the middle of the Badlands.

He flinched as the intercom intoned a name. It wasn't his, but the mech two places down on his left jumped even harder than he did, then stood and hesitated an astro-second to collect himself before stepping through the door into the next chamber. The energy in the room had palpably fritzed and skittered about among the remaining mechs before resettling into the increasingly-familiar "waiting game" pattern.

_Energy, _Wheeljack thought_. Nervous energy . . . an energy I can practically wave my hand through. Wouldn't it be awesome if someone could actually figure out how ta harness that? Heh, bet it'd be enough ta power a small house or somethin'. An apartment, at least. Ooooh, I think I just came up with my next project! Assumin' I make it in._

_Please, please, Primus, let me be accepted!_

His feet had started swinging, heels kicking a soft rhythm against the baseboard, and he realized it just as the mech on his right turned to give him a dirty look. He hunched, offering a look of apology in return as he pressed his heels back once more.

_Pit, this wait's gonna kill me first, I thin-!_

"Wheeljack, please come into the review chamber."

The mech squeaked audibly in anxious surprise, then cast a look of embarrassment around at his fellow hopefuls, who looked back with expressions ranging from amusement to disdain. But none of it mattered. All that mattered were the mechs on the other side of that door.

_Okay, Wheeljack . . . it's showtime!_


End file.
